"To know how to dissemble is the knowledge of kings." — Cardinal Richelieu

The unheralded return of the royal airship Le Soleil threw the Basilica's equilibrium into a measured uproar. Protocol and schedules were tossed aside from the moment the Hierophant touched down. He set the court on its ear immediately with an impromptu audience on the docking pad to exonerate the Warder. The King reported his discovery of bullets that passed through walls, spoke stern words about "traitors who would exploit the grace granted heaven's feathered emissaries for the mortal sin of murder," and officially cleared his Warder of false slander. The Council would have to ratify his judgment, but the thing was done. Sir Adyton was teleported directly from his cell to kneel at his monarch's feet and kiss his ring in reaffirmation of his oath. The Hierophant warned his courtiers to expect no fixed royal schedule until the Warder apprehended whoever was monitoring his movements with murderous intent. Then he swept up the reinstated head of security in his train and marched off to the royal apartments.

The Queen followed, retiring to her own private suite to recover from a long flight. Sharp-eyed servants noted that Lucina, the royal midwife, had not only accompanied her from the Healing Hives, but had remained cloistered with her after the rest of them were dismissed. Gossip began to fly from the servants' floors to the kitchens to the barracks, setting the whole lattice of the Basilica abuzz with cheerful expectancy. However, the only official word from the royal wing that day was to announce a fête in three days' time in honour of the Dowager Queen, with a special service to pray for her speedy recovery.

Nyssa had spent an anxious hour with Lucina poring over the Basilica's medical files. Pregnancy among the Celestenes was close enough to Trakenite, but they were now embarking on uncharted waters, both biological and religious. The Queen might insist that childbirth among her people was a deeply personal and private affair, but not all Celestenes would be satisfied by an offworlder flaunting sacred tradition. The birth of a new Apollo demanded witnesses, ceremonies to consecrate the blessed heir, all the moreso while a disinherited prince skulked in the shadows. But there could be no witnesses. A genetic test would put the child's royal blood beyond doubt, but it might raise even more questions.

"Let the menfolk squabble over the pedigree later," the midwife counselled. "Our task's to see the babe into the world. Now, in a breech birth…"

They were hip deep in umbilical cords and the Celestenes' double placenta when a chime sounded from the wall mirror which doubled as a workstation. The Queen blushed and hastily donned her mask. "I am summoned. Thank you, Lucina. You should see about arranging your own quarters. Ask Calliope if one of the guest suites can be spared."

"Well, that's me moved up the ladder a bit." The midwife rose placidly to her feet. "Much obliged, Your Grace." With an arthritic curtsey, she followed the Queen out of her bedchamber and slipped away. Nyssa had taken only two steps into her dressing room when her attendants swarmed around her, laying claim to her once more by arraying her in her robes of office.

They would have to be weaned from this custom, but for now, she meekly submitted to their care. Tomorrow she needed to review the house servant rolls with a fine-toothed comb, taking into account Rhea's blunt recommendations. Some might require tactful reassignment.

Some ten minutes later, a page ushered her into the King's antechamber. She thanked him and passed from the outer room through a rayed archway of opaque mist into the Hierophant's private sitting room. There she was relieved to see Achille fully clothed and draped with careless grace across the arms of his favourite chair. The Warder, whose lacquered armour hung a trifle more loosely off his gaunt frame, stood at attention behind his master as if he had never been torn from his post. The Hierophant rose to take her hand and lead her to a matching velvet chair while Adyton poured drinks.

"Thank you, Warder," she said, raising the glass to him and meeting his eyes gravely before taking a sip.

"Your Majesty." He had not used that particular appellation for her until now. His stiff moustache twitched as the severe face appeared to undergo some kind of inner contortion. "All gratitude should be on my side, as well as heartfelt apology. I understand that the calculations which proved my innocence were yours."

She smiled. "The facts spoke for themselves. You would never harm the Hierophant, and those who intended him harm needed you out of the way. Therefore, it was simply a matter of determining how the illusion was staged. I take it we still cannot prove who planted that weapon?"

"No, Your Majesty." His face darkened.

"Although there is no longer much doubt," said the King. "I fear for the harmony of the Basilica, should this truth come out."

"Let truth attend to itself, Your Highness."

The eyes behind the gilded mask clouded. "A noble sentiment, fair one. Sometimes I think I should follow it entire, for how else can I justly hold Apollo's seat?"

"Majesty," Adyton said, pained. "You do not lie."

"Lies of omission, Patrocle, are lies of intent if not fact. And now I ask this virtuous lady to compound the sin with true deception."

"To preserve life and keep a killer from the throne," she said, "which would be a greater evil." There were many kinds of Melkurs, some more petty than the monster who had taken her father's place. "Someday your people will be ready for the truth. Until then, there is no reason that you should suffer for it. And so… my Lord Warder, I presume you've been apprised of our plan?"

"Yes, Your Grace." He frowned. "I cannot say I approve of it. Should you fail your part—"

"Adyton!" the Hierophant said sharply.

"No, he's right," she said. "Sir Adyton, I'll need all your experience and guidance, or I haven't a hope of pulling this off. Can I count on your support? The High Hierophant depends upon us both. And there is a new life in the balance that we three must guard together."

The Warder's face was, as ever, a closed mask, for all that he wore none. But the long jowls lifted slightly in a tremulous smile. It was the first glimpse she'd seen of the older man's true feelings for his master. Four decades separated them, but then, the Celestenes like Trakenites were long-lived, making such a gap seem relatively smaller. She suspected their imbalance of years and of power had allowed them to find an unlikely homeostasis.

"Yes, Your Grace," Adyton said. "You have my word. I shall be your shield. I hope you'll find my service satisfactory."

"I already do," she said. "Now. Where do we begin?"

The Hierophant laughed and leapt to his feet. He struck a dashing pose. "With dance, of course. That is how I won the people over, and now you must do the same. Patrocle? You will judge us, step for step. Try not to be too partial."

The Doctor was in his element again.

This was what life was about, stripped of politics, personal stakes, second thoughts and regrets: a stand of ancient trees crowning the hill beyond the oval, the smell of frost-clipped grass, a lump of hide and cork, and a strong right arm. Autumn in Stockbridge was eternal, yet transitory. Winter had come early this year, but the Doctor barely noticed the nip in the air, focused as he was on trajectories, mechanics, the poetry of bowling. A clean run-up. A leap. His hand whipped out. The red ball spun down, arcing swift and sure towards the stumps—

The bat connected with a resounding crack. A joyful cry of Six! went up as the shot launched like a rocket, bouncing off the roof of the pavilion. He turned and stared after it until a guffaw from a passing batsman drew his mind back to fielding. Two uninspired balls later, old Linford beckoned him to the bench and thrust a mug of hot cider into his hands when he arrived.

"Drink up, Doctor," he said. "Looks like you need a little fire in your belly." His craggy face cracked into a grin. "Don't worry, man, it's not the hard stuff. I know you."

"Thank you, Daniel." He took a sip of the pungent drink and tried not to grimace. "I'm sorry. This isn't the game I promised you."

"No, it ain't," the retired captain said gruffly. "What's come over you?"

"That's a little hard to explain," he said, glancing down and flexing his fingers. His callouses had returned, but the skin was still pinker, newer than it used to be.

Linford snorted. "You're gettin' older, is what it is. You don't look no different, but that painting in your attic wants dustin'. Time's catching you up."

The Doctor turned his attention back to the match and winced as the batsmen exchanged places again. "Nonsense," he said. "It was just a bad innings. I'll make it up to you." He couldn't seem to stop himself from making rash promises.

"I know you will, lad. You've come a long way since start o' season." Linford snorted to himself. "Wherever you came from. Don't know why you can't just settle down here. Two lives, that can't be healthy for a man."

"No." The Doctor chuckled weakly at that. "Let alone five."

"Oho, is that it? Lawd almighty. Five? No wonder you're tuckered out." Linford slapped his knee and turned back to the match. The game was out of reach, but Stockbridge's players were putting a brave face on it. "And you so lily-white and all. Not my place to judge, but I wouldn't be in your shoes if your birds ever get wind o' one another."

The Doctor set his mug down with an annoyed clunk. "No, Daniel, that's not it. Not even remotely. Shouldn't you be cheering the team on, raising their spirits?"

"Right you are." He cupped his hands to his mouth and bellowed to the new bowler. "Oi. Arthur. Light's goin'. No point in screwin' your arm off. Hot cider and ale's a-waitin'." He cocked an eye at the Doctor and grinned. "That's the spirits they need. Better luck next time, eh?"

But the enigmatic Doctor was staring off across the misty ground, towards the blaze of autumn colours on the far hill. In a low, thoughtful voice, as if groping for a memory, he began to chant.

"Thy eternal summer shall not fade,

Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,

Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his shade,

When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st,

So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,

So long lives this, and this gives life to thee."

"There now, I said that popper yesterday knocked the wits from your pate," said Linford. Then he sobered. "Wells Wood? That pretty little friend of yours used to wander about over there, didn't she? Reg'lar wood sprite, she was." He poured a mug of ale and pushed it towards him along the bench. "Has something happened to her?"

"No." The Doctor sighed. Even if that time bubble around Stockbridge still existed in some other reality, the Lady who dwelt within its bounds was no longer the Nyssa he knew. Better dead than twisted into a gross violation of herself. No, good old Will had the right of it. The Doctor was no bard, to memorialise a friend in immortal words, but he could store memories longer than those embalmed in Shakespeare's sonnets. "Not yet."

Sighing, he wrenched his attention back to the pitch, just in time to see his team take the last wicket in something of an anticlimax. The scorekeeper wasted no time in zeroing the scoreboard for the next day. The players began to trickle from the field.

"….the output is phenomenal," enthused the Minister of Energy, standing in the Council Chamber with blueprints clutched reverently to his breast. "And the new storage cells show a twelvefold gain in capacity. When we have converted all the Basilica's existing batteries to the new design and cleared the old away, the greater part of the under-galleries will stand empty, ready for whatever use we may devise."

"This is excellent news," said the Hierophant. "Give your artificers our royal commendation. I shall order a bonus of three months' pay delivered to them from our treasury. For our Celestial Basilica spans the heavens only through the alchemy of their engineering."

Privately, Nyssa had to suppress a smile. The oratory of the Basilica was even more flowery than Traken court language. Just as ballet was an elaborate way to cross a room, ornamented speech was another of the Celestenes' intangible luxuries. Its study had been a challenging diversion during these last few months.

Acheron, now seated among the other Councillors, cleared his throat. "Some thanks are also due, I understand, to Her Serene Grace, who furnished the design."

"Indeed." The Hierophant exchanged a quick smile with the Queen, unobtrusive but attentive. "Our alliance is fruitful."

Merry laughter rang around the table. Beneath owl-mask and veil, the Queen's throat coloured pink.

"For which the Basilica rings with notes of jubilation from root to sky," Acheron said warmly. "Indeed, it is small wonder that you wished to share the proof of this miracle before the Council so swift on the heels of its announcement. Nonetheless— forgive me, Your All-Holiness— among all these other innovations, I marvel that Her Grace is once again present at Council, particularly in light of her… blessed state."

"While we are the targets of forces unknown," the Hierophant said grimly, "I will not have my consort leave my sight."

"Your vigilance is to your credit, Sire," Acheron said, his slight emphasis on the word drawing another round of smiles, "Although not perhaps to the Warder's."

Adyton, guarding the doors, surveyed the Councillors with an impassive glower. His gaze paused for a beat as he swept past the thrones elevated high above him at the far end of the hall.

Nyssa felt a pang of irritation on his behalf. But for now, until they had solid evidence of Acheron's involvement in any plot, they must simply parry his verbal barbs and stay alert.

"As your concern for the royal line redounds to yours, noble Uncle. And yet your misjudgment but recently deprived us of Adyton's services and fettered him, my right hand. Else he might have tracked fresh clues to the true culprit. But we'll have the villain yet."

"Be it so." Acheron steepled his hands upon the table and glanced around. "I think I speak for all your Councillors, who wish a speedy conclusion to this disharmony. May we know how far the investigation has proceeded?"

"You may." The Hierophant beckoned to Adyton. "Come away from your post, Warder, and brief the Council on the state of our defenses."

"Majesty." He stepped forward and bowed deeply to the semicircle of nobles seated above him. "The Heavenly Gates are reforged as a fine-tooth web of steel. We have tested the transmat beams 'gainst guardsmen kitted with false keys or a simulacrum of the enemy's weapon. None passed. Even the birds find no entry to our halls."

"Which grieves my Queen." The Hierophant smiled sadly. "But we must bear this discourtesy to our feathered lodgers for a time. And the weapon?"

"The barrel of the gun found behind Minerva's throne showed no residue such as might be expected from an explosives-propelled projectile."

"You are saying it was never fired?"

"It seems not. However, it did not come there by chance." He raised his eyes to meet the King's respectfully. "Both it and the fragments of the concussive device used at the Hives of Hygieia are demonstrably of alien origin. An excess of titanium-48 in their alloy points to the Sikyon system."

The Hierophant nodded. "Where once my brother sought asylum, after my father banished him."

Acheron raised an eyebrow. "But the Sikyoni rejected his petition, as Your All-Holiness should recall. Our trade was too valuable for them to exchange our goodwill for his. Meanwhile—" he paused. "I beg your pardon, Your Holiness. I speak out of turn."

"As is ever your wont, Uncle, but speak on."

The Council had gone quiet, some visibly holding their breaths. None could fail to note how the ex-regent had come down in the hierarchy, leaving the Hierophant and his consort floating in isolated state at the high end of the hall. Some also noted a subtle change in their youthful monarch. His gallant affability had caused many to discount him as a lightweight. Now the gravity that had always lain beneath was plain to see.

"I wondered," Acheron said, "whether the Lord Doctor had yet responded to the Queen's summons."

The Hierophant stiffened. There was a long pause during which the councillors shifted and whispered. This royal rumour would soon wend its way up and down the Basilica. "The private correspondence between Her Serene Grace and her former guardian is not Council business."

"Indeed not, and I humbly beg Her Grace's pardon." He pushed back his chair and rose to make an obeisance, folding low over one bended knee. "I ask only in connection with the present investigation. For assuredly the Time Lord's service to your person in this matter has been invaluable in the past. Therefore his absence now is to be lamented."

"The Lord Doctor is our ally, not our subject, and is free to come and go as he pleases. The Basilica is blessed with good fortune and well-defended. Other worlds in graver peril need him more."

The Queen sat still as stone through all of this, hands folded across a lap somewhat more ample than when they returned from the islands. Only a slightly clenched jaw betrayed any hint of irritation.

"That may be so," said Acheron, "but his marked silence suggests that alliance has cooled. It might be well to ascertain whether the Lord Doctor has himself lately come to Sikyon."

"The Doctor would never—!" A discreet cough from the Queen cut off the Hierophant's retort. "Ah, Uncle, again you seek to shield all your sister-sons alike, blind to probabilities. I forgive you. But you must cease flailing about for scapegoats. It is not my right hand you strike at this time, but the Queen's. Leave the Lord Doctor out of your reckoning, for he is far away. Now, let us turn to happier matters. We have heard good news from the Healing Hives of Hygieia. Our Holy Mother is mending fast…"

This, too, was back to normal: the Doctor was running for his life.

The woman running beside him had longer legs than Nyssa's, a useful asset in companions. And he could not deny that her military training had come in handy.

Trapped inside an interrogation cell while the warship disintegrated around him would have been an unpleasant way to die. She had spared him from that fate, and he was determined to return the favour. From the way the deck was shuddering, he guessed that they did not have much time. The planet's cargo transports were continuing their desperate kamikaze defense. One had already scored a critical hit.

The Doctor abhorred invasion of every kind, but picking on a civilisation that was barely into its first century of spaceflight was in particularly poor taste. What must they think of the rest of the galaxy?

Thankfully, Marta had been able to set aside first impressions. She made an abrupt turn and flung herself behind a strut flanking the damaged bulkhead they had just hurtled through. The squat form of a Sontaran, lightly charred and fuming with rage, appeared in the jagged opening.

"Doct-ooor!" A blaster rifle swung towards him.

"Ah. Hello there," he said, raising his hands promptly. "You seem to be having a spot of bother with your engines. If you'd like me to have a look at them, I'd be happy to—"

He winced at the sickening crunch of a utility knife driven into the probic vent at the back of the Sontaran's gorget. His would-be executioner gave a gurgling snarl and dropped like the sack of potatoes he somewhat resembled. No more Janus thorns, the Doctor thought ruefully, recalling his struggles to moderate Leela's bloodthirsty upbringing the last time he had befriended a warrior.

"Thank you, Lieutenant," he said mildly. "I don't suppose you could find a less lethal means to dispatch them?"

She gave him an incredulous look. "If you're a pacifist, what the bloody hell are you doing in a war zone?"

"I often ask myself that question," he mused, peering through the smoky opening to see if any more of their pursuers had survived the detonation of the starboard engine. "Speaking of war zones, I estimate we have less than three minutes to find a way off this ship before it explodes." Indeed, the whine of the remaining engine was audible now even two decks away. "I do wish they'd follow my advice and evacuate."

"Well, I will," the lieutenant said, massaging her wrenched shoulder after retrieving her knife with a jerk. "Where did you say this escape pod of yours was?"

"Not mine, exactly," he said, hurrying to the security keypad sealing the next bulkhead. "It's the drop ship they were preparing for delivery of the ozone-depletion agent into your stratosphere. I managed to detach the tanks before they apprehended me, so with any luck—"

The door opened, just as an angry bellow echoed up the corridor behind them. "Doc-tooooor!"

They glanced at one another and ran.

Adyton brought his mailed fist down on the table, causing the display embedded in its surface to waver.

Nyssa looked up from the anthology of kinesthetic poetry she was tabbing through. "Another sensor ghost?" She refrained from coming over to look. Security was the Warder's responsibility, not hers.

"Yes, Majesty," he said, recomposing himself and looking past her. After all this time, he was still not entirely comfortable with her presence in Achille's private chambers. "But again, my guards found no trace of an intruder. There was a servant in an adjacent storeroom, but he was questioned closely and released."

Achille, who had been dozing in his armchair by a dully glowing sculpture which served as a hearth, peeled open an eye. "Could he be the same man that tripped your scans before, in disguise?"

"No, Your Majesty. This was an elderly man, a domestic. And there seems to be no connection between him and the Laconian. Nor any weapon, energy source, or article of offworlder make about him."

"The sensors could be picking up some particle shed by the intruder," Nyssa said. "Filings from a bullet-casing, perhaps, or dust from his clothes."

"Assuming our phantom guest truly exists," Achille said. "With all your vigilance, I begin to wonder if the bombing of the Healing Hives was not his last throw. The Heavenly Gates are too well-fortified now."

"The Celestial Basilica is vast, Your Highness," Adyton reminded him, pained. "My vigilance is of limited worth, since I cannot see nor send my hounds to every corner."

"And so long as he refrains from using the transmat network or carrying a charged energy weapon, he can avoid a full scan," said Nyssa.

"Yes." Achille sank back into his chair and smiled. "Be that as it may. Let him gnaw the cheese-rinds and skulk behind the scullery as he will. This mouse will not touch us, while Sir Adyton's strong right arm is close at hand."

"We cannot screen for every kind of ranged weapon," Adyton pointed out.

Nyssa set down her vidbook and rose, leaving the warmth that radiated from the hearth-tree. She paced across the room with arms wrapped around herself. Everything her eye fell upon was beautiful: the lanterns, the flowering plants, the embroidered tapestries, the tiled stone floor, and the sweeping bow windows that looked out over luminous spires softened by swirls of moonlit cloud. Such opulence and beauty were hollow luxuries, while death lurked in the wainscoting. "Your Highness," she said at last. "Sir Adyton. I don't like it any more than you do, but I fear it's time to try and draw him out."

"The answer is still no." Achille pushed himself half out of his chair and twisted towards her. "I will not allow you to hazard yourself any more than you already have on my behalf. Not though the Basilica's harmony depended upon it. We cannot even be certain he is here. Regardless, the risk is not yours to take. Remember, if either of us is discovered, all is lost."

"But—"

"No." His gaze was stern. "I value your counsel a great deal, my Minerva, and I concede that your mind if not your flesh has the fortitude of a man's. But I will not be gainsaid in this. Devise another stratagem."

Nyssa faced him with a flash of irritation. "Remember I'm flesh and blood, Your Highness, not a war goddess. Tactics I defer to those more qualified." She nodded to the Warder. "All I know is that it's better to face a threat than postpone it and hope for the best."

"I don't suppose you've received any sign from the Lord Doctor?" said Achille.

"No." She came to a halt beside his chair. As she watched, the hearth-tree changed from dull red to purple, limbs twisting like some slow-moving, sentient fungus. There were so many wonders here, yet the Celestenes took most of them for granted. The Doctor had shared and cultivated her delight in such marvels. His absence ached, but there was no help for it. All she could do was carry on without him. "And I'm afraid to try again, since Acheron seems to be listening in somehow."

"In all our contrivances, Lady," Achille said, reaching out to rest a hand against her back, "we have left one thing out of reckoning: your fate. If your champion does not come, we face a quandary. What will you do once the child is born? Will you not now consent to be my Queen for life and not only for the duration of our conspiracy?"

Nyssa bit her lip, feeling the eyes of the Warder upon her again, no longer wary but still guarded. "I am… tempted," she admitted. "I doubt I'll find a better world than this, with Traken gone."

"So, then!" Achille lowered his voice. "As you know, my servants' discretion can be trusted. Or if someday it's rumoured that the Queen had taken a lover, well, it would hardly be unprecedented."

Nyssa blushed. "That… isn't quite the family arrangement I had in mind," she said. "I'm honoured, Achille, truly. But I'm still inclined to slip away discreetly and return to the stars. It's what I would have done with the Doctor, after all." Out there, she thought, she might have a chance of finding him someday. Or if not, she would find a world that needed her skills more.

"Then I shall mourn my Minerva in deed, not only in seeming," Achille said. "But I must not begrudge you your freedom, when you have already sacrificed so much for mine." Then he yawned. "Ah, forgive me. These weeks of inaction have made an unseemly lethargy of my limbs."

"And I should bid you goodnight. Sleep well, Your Majesty."

He stood and sketched a simple bow. "May the Heavenly Spheres send you blessed sleep. Goodnight, dear lady." So saying, he shimmered from view.

Adyton reached for the jewel embedded in his sword-hilt to follow, but paused, seeing Nyssa's sharp look. "Your Grace?"

"If we do not choose the time and place," she said, "Auguste will do it for us."

"I know it."

"In three days," she said, "The King performs Entreé d'Apollon for the first time in many moons, la belle danse which above all others epitomises the harmony of the Basilica. It would be a pity if the court were only to find out after the fact. Of course, if the royal calendar were to leak out—"

"I understand." He hesitated, then drew himself into a formal salute. "May Mars watch over him."

"I trust he will. Thank you." She pressed her fist over her heart and bowed in return, a token of affirmation and accord in the complex gesture-language of the court. When he had teleported away to follow his master, she sought her own bed.

The Doctor opened his eyes to find Marta slashing at the straps pinning him to the pilot's seat. He had brought them down more or less intact, until the planetary defense systems identified their escape pod as Sontaran. She helped him struggle groggily from the flaming wreckage. Then it was another brisk dash across uneven terrain to get clear of exploding fuel lines. As a shower of shrapnel flew over their heads and pelted down around them, he realised that he had landed in the right crater after all. They had just passed the shattered boulder where the day's routine of mistaken identity, arrest, escape and recapture had begun.

As the lethal rain petered out, he found himself appraising the taciturn woman jogging beside him. He had sworn off warriors since Leela's departure, but perhaps it was time to take the plunge.

His chest tightened. Was it? Did he dare risk another companion, ever again? Was it fair to make this woman a test case? But it would be her choice, just as each of them had chosen. If he was ever to take another companion— and deep down, he knew he could not travel solo forever— perhaps it would be wise to cultivate one like this. A fighter, but one who yearned for peace.

"Doctor, where are you going?" Marta puffed. "The base is back that way!"

"And my ship lies in this direction," he said. "I'm afraid I had an awkward difference of opinion with the base commander. I'm not keen on continuing the debate. Are you coming?"

"Coming where?" she said. "There's nothing up… the hell is that?"

"The TARDIS," he said, jogging up the short slope towards the welcoming patch of blue on the grey crater's rim. "My ship. I'll give you a lift you back to your base. Unless…"

No one could ever replace those who stayed behind. But the universe had lost much of its savour without a friend to share in its marvels. Maybe it was time.

"Now that Marshal Vrax has realised that this system has no strategic value—" thanks largely to the Doctor's fast-talking— "he'll claim a glorious victory and start withdrawing his forces. Which means all that's left is the dreary mopping-up. You told me you were training to be an astronaut before the war. How about getting a head start on seeing the universe?"

"Now there's a thought." Staring doubtfully at the pillbox-sized capsule silhouetted against the sky, she followed him up the slope. "What's your starting pay?"

"Most of my companions come with me for the experience," he said, aggrieved.

"What, you only invite the idle rich?"

"Not necessarily." The Doctor bounded the last few feet, dug out his key, and opened the door to her with a modest bow. "After you."

The woman peered past him with a gleam of speculation in her eyes. That, too, was something he had missed seeing. "Gods know you want looking after. But they'll be expecting me back at HQ. The war may be over, and then again, it may not. I've learned a good deal about the enemy, thanks to your help. I need to deliver that intel." She held out her hand. "Good luck, Doctor."

"And you, Marta." He shook it firmly. "May I offer you a lift, at least?"

"Thanks, but no." She shrugged. "I can find my own way."

"Yes," he said, relaxing into a smile. "I believe you can."

With that, he turned his back on the wasteland and hurried inside. Regret was tempered with relief. Perhaps it was just as well that she had declined. He flipped the door lever absently and moved to the dematerialisation controls. That was when he noticed the indicator light blinking on the communications console.

Life in the Basilica had slowly returned to normal. For the first time in months, the King danced once more before the populace. Dressed in martial attire, plumed headdress bristling above solar mask, the Hierophant prowled across the throne room like a lion, stalking, leaping, marching, heels striking hard against the floor. All around their leader, young nobles tried to outdo themselves in complicated maneuvers, seeking to catch the eyes of the ladies of the court. Each step boomed to the solemn beat of drums. The lattice vibrated with a surge of triumph.

Two thrones were upon the dais, as was proper, and two queens, which was not. Her Serene Grace Rhea Feronia, High Priestess of Hygieia, had lately returned from her domain, her staff of office now doubling as a cane. She watched the proceedings with an air of weary triumph, engendered by the fecund figure on her left. The Queen's petite, rounded frame was resplendent in peacock-green brocades embroidered with the leaves and fruits of Venus Primavera. The Warder kept close attendance on them both, looming behind the left-hand throne with his gauntlet resting on its scalloped edge. An impropriety, that, but only one pair of eyes had noted it.

Lord Acheron was keeping the Queen company, too, standing on her left to watch the fierce display. His lip curled as he followed the slight youth around the room, footwork not quite so nimble as a season ago. "It is good to see the King dancing again after so long an absence from our hallowed halls. I feared that married life was making him soft."

Minerva's voice was stiff through the mask. "An unwise assumption."

"You're very accommodating, my lady, as is no doubt appropriate for one of your charms." It was perhaps too vulgar a shot. After his first assassination attempt, Acheron's nephew had lauded the offworlder's valour and lamented that she had seen fit to wed the usurper. But she was now hopelessly sullied, bearing a bastard without a drop of royal blood. No surprise that Achille bore the stain of cuckoldry without blushing, considering his other depravities, but that Acheron's own sister could countenance the ascension of an alien to the throne instead of her true-born son was more than he could fathom.

Just now, he had the offworlder's ear. "Tell me truly, Lady, since you are widely traveled: is this mimesis of manliness not a laughable pantomime? Have you not seen more puissant warriors on other worlds? Or did the Lord Doctor only take you to safe and peaceful realms like the Basilica?"

The scrape of the Warder's armour was affronted as he turned a hooded glance towards Acheron. The Queen answered in the same cool tones as before. "I have faced deadly perils. Compared to other worlds, I find the peace here commendable. For surely the five Noble Truths elevate us above brute force. Although indeed, I find no place is altogether safe or at peace, and therefore it is well that you have a brave sovereign."

"One who is lucky to have acquired so virtuous a woman to sing his praises."

"Do you think it virtue, Uncle, to slight him before his very eyes but not to his face?"

Rhea cleared her throat, while Adyton's mailed knuckles pressed against the wood hard enough to dent the varnish.

Acheron started to craft a reply, but at that moment the Queen gave a startled exclamation and started to rise. Adyton, too, had abruptly surged forward, only to halt, quivering, before the royal dais.

"Go!" she said, and started forward too.

Acheron saw what they had seen. If he had overplayed his hand too much a moment ago by betraying his displeasure at how low their dynasty had fallen, his nephew— the rightful heir, the Basilica's last hope for a true Apollo— was once again throwing caution to the winds. The disguise was good, uncannily so, but the borrowed skin could not conceal that aristocratic lift of chin beneath the half-mask. Nor could Auguste's uncle mistake the precise, masterly footwork that had brought him almost within a dagger's thrust before the Warder bellowed a warning, charging into the first line of dancers.

Adyton's hesitation before the thrones had cost a bare second. Auguste might yet have found his mark before the Warder reached him, but that whelp in king's raiment had heard the Queen's cry and skipped aside, struggling to draw his sword without slashing an innocent bystander. Auguste's first dagger-thrust snarled in Achille's cloak, and then the runt had the sword out to parry. Acheron had never seen the siblings cross swords, but he could not but sneer as the younger betrayed his infirmity, barely able to fend off the bodkin's strokes with a blade twice its length. Auguste might yet prevail, despite his shorter reach.

Screams and shouts were breaking out around the hall. One worthy threw himself between the princes and crashed to his knees groaning, taking a thrust meant for the King. "Back!" the Hierophant commanded, sweeping his sword in a wide arc to drive away those who were trying to tackle his opponent. "Adyton, to me!"

More cries of horror and stupefaction broke out. From the vantage point of the royal dais, it was difficult to see what had happened, but Acheron could guess. Auguste's offworlder camouflage was not designed for sword-work. As he turned, his uncle saw beneath the façade: a gaping tear from earlobe to lip, flexing like a rent torn in stiff parchment. There was no blood.

The Queen had started towards the fracas. Acheron seized her arm, wondering at her stupidity. "Stand back and let the Warder redeem himself," he snarled, tempted to let her hazard herself and solve one more problem.

The Queen jerked hard, drawing him closer when he expected her to flinch away. Before Acheron had time to react, she had grasped the sword at his hip and drawn it. She held it point downward, but a quick upward flip could be fatal. "Unhand me, or I swear to you, you'll be tried alongside Auguste," she snapped.

Seething at the gross outrage which no one else observed, since all eyes were turned to the King, Acheron opened his hand and stepped back with a stony glare. "If you would imperil the heir—" he said.

"Be still," Rhea commanded. "Both of you!"

"I will do as I must," Minerva said, shoving the hilt back into Acheron's hand, turning away and stalking towards the dance floor. For a moment her shoulder-blades framed a free target. But the damnable woman had guessed he still retained a shred of honour. In any event, his quarrel was with his own blood. He would not stain his hand to correct an offworlder's impudence.

In those brief seconds Adyton had crashed through the dancers who had not scattered, his own sword out in a lightning-quick twist. Now the opponents were matched in skill. Auguste gave way, showing true footwork to shame the King's, but he could not long hold out against the Warder's fierce blows. Rather than be disarmed, he simply dropped the dagger and raised his hands high.

"Well fought, my bondsman," he said. "I see I have lost this appeal."

Setting sword-tip on the man's jerkin, Adyton kicked the dagger away, fury in his eyes. "I serve none but His All-Holiness," he spat, "who is your rightful lord."

"Be at peace, my friend," the Hierophant murmured. "See he does not move." So saying, he stretched out his hand to the back of Auguste's neck, fingers searching just below his hairline. There was a collective gasp as the man's skin seemed to crawl and collapse like a punctured balloon, tugging his mask askew and retracting in flesh-colored folds like a hood cast back. With a fierce head-shake, he flung the mask away. Beneath, the features were those of a different man. The court was privileged to behold Lord Auguste, although few save his uncle and mother had seen his face enough to recognise it.

Adyton stared at him, brows knitting. "What sorcery is this?"

"Intriguing technology," the Hierophant said, unruffled by the astonishing transformation.

"Well met, little brother," Auguste said, smiling. "You might have found it useful."

But the Hierophant had already turned his attention to the badly-wounded dancer. "Holy Mother? There is one here who needs your—"

Before he could finish speaking, Auguste had lunged out from under the Warder's blade. Acheron felt a chill of foreboding as he leapt for the Queen and threw an arm around her neck before anyone could stop him. "Not one step closer, any of you!" he said.

"If you ever loved your father, let go," Rhea said, dread shaking her voice.

"Not this way, sister-son," Acheron said grimly. "The lady is only a pawn."

"Sorry, Uncle," he said. "I'm afraid it is time to call my brother's bluff. Mother! Will you tell them, or shall I?"

Rhea's words were as implacable as the terracotta mask of the goddess. "One who would slay his kin is no son of mine."

"Then I am still your son. See! Achille's charmed life is yet unharmed. As for his offworlder queen—" She made a strangled sound, struggling against his tightening grip. Then he let out a faint gasp. His arm fell away, limp.

Adyton had stepped behind the prince during this exchange, taking up the dagger that had been meant for the King. The stroke had been swift, silent, and deep. Auguste was dead before he hit the floor, sprawling across his cloak that was already red and sodden.

"Stupid fool!" Acheron raged, but it was too late. Lost, lost, lost to the same perversity of fate that had caused Auguste's elder brother to drink from a poisoned cup meant for the runt. Now the only worthy man left in this whole tragedy was likely to be exiled as a murderer, if Adyton was not executed for slaying his betters. Acheron stood impotently beside the empty thrones, struggling to keep his face impassive as his last hope died in a welter of blood. Would that his own blood were as holy. Alas, he was the brother-in-law of the last true Hierophant, and not the brother.

Stone-faced, the Warder unfastened his sword-belt and offered it and the dagger to his guards, frozen in their tracks as they converged upon the spot. No one in living memory had used blades save in ceremony and nonlethal sport. Two murders in a century, let alone two princes slain, was unthinkable. Yet the guards made no move to apprehend their captain. Impatiently, he shoved the weapons into the hands of the nearest guard, then gathered the Queen under his mantle and drew her gently away. Behind them, tears dripped from Rhea's mask as she moved stiffly towards her fallen son. She leaned heavily on her staff of office, a symbol of healing that could not avail him now.

Courtiers and dancers crowded round, some murmuring in subdued horror, some weeping. A few retreated under Adyton's dour glare. The rest obeyed when the Hierophant waved them back. "Begone, all of you. Make way for the Holy Mother. Gape not at royal sorrow."

He joined Rhea as she stooped over Auguste's body. "I am so sorry, Mother."

"It could not be helped." Voice remote, Rhea unclasped her cloak and cast it over his naked face. "So now I have one son." She shook off the Hierophant's hand from her shoulder, nodding towards the Queen.

Leaving her to weep, he hurried over to his consort. "Minerva? All's well?"

"I…I think so." The Queen smiled tremulously, voice weak but triumphant. "Tell Mother— the baby's on its way."

Hear me.

Nyssa's words drifted back to him, as if from beyond the grave, beyond the impenetrable Web of Time.

Hear me!

Reluctantly, the Doctor pressed the message playback switch, although he knew it would only reopen wounds.

"Doctor. It's urgent. Didn't you get my message? Oh, Doctor, please. We have come so far, back and forth. It was never… was not… is not anything but my wish, my choice for us to remain friends. Stay in touch."

An echo. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He played the oddly stilted message back again, listening closely. Yes! Of course! The old lattice-speech of the Celestial Basilica! How could he possibly have missed it before?

He slammed his fist on the console.

She had taken a tremendous risk in the first place, embedding the plea in such an elementary pattern, which Achille was certainly intelligent enough to decipher should she have been overheard. And now she had exposed herself to danger once again, practically shouting her SOS to any eavesdropper who might be listening in! What price might she pay for her indiscretion?

Leaping around the console, he began to key in the coordinates. His hands were shaking.

He should have guessed. The Rite of Dionysos was a fertility ritual that lowered inhibitions. If they were holding Nyssa against her will, if she had been forced to marry, to bear a child, and he had left her to that fate—

Ten words. Ten simple, bleak words.

Please come back. It was not my choice to stay.

His path was clear. He could not make it up to her, but he must make it right.

He threw the dematerialisation switch. The rotor began to rise and fall.

He spoke aloud to a console room that never should have been empty. "The Web of Time can burn."